


Sunny

by SeaAnemone



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Dancing, F/M, Humor, Pining, Romance, gaby you don't even know, illya you're so smitten, spy tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-07-11 20:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7069060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaAnemone/pseuds/SeaAnemone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It seems Illya's habit of keeping an eye on the little chop shop girl is a more frequent one than she originally thought. It also seems he has been falling for her since long before their wrestling match in Rome.</p><p>(In which, before Napoleon breaks her out of East Berlin, Special Agent Illya Kuryakin is assigned to do surveillance of Miss Gabriela Teller.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Nearly 5k words about Illya spying on Gaby and otherwise being the smitten & pining teen he is at heart. I definitely got carried away. Enjoy I hope!

**DAY 4 - 22:05**

_Target enters apartment shortly after 2200 hours with large purse and grocery bag,_ Agent Kuryakin quickly writes in his little black notebook. He has been monitoring this woman for the past few nights: this small, secretive car mechanic whom the KGB has taken a keen interest in, thanks to her unfortunate relations. The USSR's best chance at stopping nuclear destruction and simultaneously ensuring its own victory in the arms race, Oleg had told him, lies with finding the girl's scientist father.

So Illya has taken up the decrepit flat across the street from this woman, Miss Gabriela Teller, and watches her evening routine through high-powered binoculars in the hope of gaining any useful information regarding her father's whereabouts. After three days he hasn't found out anything, but prepares for his fourth night with the same determination and precision he brings to every mission.

After three days, what Illya _has_ learned is the woman's little habits. Miss Teller never returns home before the sun has gone down, spending every waking hour at the garage or the market; she turns her many lamps on — too many, as if the shadows frighten her and she must make the rooms blindingly bright to keep them at bay — in the same order when she arrives, and off in the same order when she goes to bed; she leaves her possessions scattered and cluttered around the rooms, but always arranges her shoes perfectly in the corner by the door. He deduces that it's a dancer's habit: Oleg had informed him that the woman was once training as a ballerina.

As always, Miss Teller places her little flats carefully, then crosses the room to her kitchenette and proceeds to empty her bag's contents onto the counter.

 _Target removes items from grocery bag: fruits, bread, package wrapped in butcher's paper, vodka bottle,_ Illya jots down. He then sees Miss Teller pull another bottle from the bag.

 _~~Vodka bottle.~~ _ _Two vodka bottles._

And another.

 _ ~~Vodka bottle. Two vodka bottles.~~_ _Three bottles of hard liquor,_ he corrects, and raises an eyebrow. For such a petite woman, she must have an impressive tolerance for alcohol.

_Target pours a glass of vodka, then takes a seat on the sofa and opens a magazine._

He wonders if observation of Miss Teller is truly worth the effort. She seems to be a fiercely private person: does not invite friends over, does not socialize very much. It's doubtful the woman is even in contact with her father. In fact, she doesn't seem to have any family connection left at all. Illya supposes that isn't unusual for many East Berliners.

Though for such a private person, Illya is surprised the woman always leaves the curtains to her large window wide open, making his job much easier.

Miss Teller idly flips through the magazine (something about automotive parts, perhaps a catalogue), which is one of her few pastimes. Since Illya has started his surveillance, he has seen the woman do only three things in the time she spends at home: reading, talking to friends on the phone, and listening to the radio. She never seems particularly interested in any of them, which might explain why drinking is always an accompaniment, no matter the activity.

Illya has been halfheartedly watching her slender fingers turn page after page for nearly half an hour, when suddenly she slams the booklet closed and tosses it away, getting to her feet. He grabs his notebook, alert and studious.

_Target searches in closet for several minutes. Emerges with ballet shoes._

He watches curiously as Miss Teller slips into the shoes, ties the ribbons around her ankles. They don't exactly match her black pants and dark green pullover, but she doesn't seem to mind as she places one foot on her bureau, and stretches.

After a minute she ties her hair up in a bun and pushes her coffee table out of the way. She stands in the center of the room, eyes closed, and begins to move.

There is no image of the fragile, porcelain ballerina doll when Miss Teller dances. She's a graceful dancer, but powerful. She moves with purpose, but Illya thinks he can tell that she's a little distracted, contemplative. Dancing must be a way of working through the thoughts that busy her mind, an outlet like chess is for him. Her movements are unabashed and unrestrained, as she dances only for herself. And, though she doesn't realize it, tonight she dances for Illya as well.

He follows her movements, rapt with interest. Illya has had a weakness for ballet since his mother and father took him to the Bolshoi Theatre for their fifteenth anniversary. It's one of his happiest memories of his parents, and one of the last.

Miss Teller isn't as skilled as the professionals he remembers of course, but he imagines she could have been if she continued training. He wonders what drew her away from dancing, something she clearly enjoys, even if it's only for the sake of relaxation now. He gradually accepts the fact that he will probably never know.

**  
DAY 6 - 21:10**

Miss Teller has been home for about an hour when her telephone rings.  

Until that point, Illya has barely made two notes about her: _Miss Teller enters apartment at 2000 hours precisely wearing a weekend outfit of dark red dress and purple flats_ and _Miss Teller brushes her chestnut brown hair 32 times before putting it in loose ponytail._ It might be more detail than necessary, but there isn't much else to write, and Illya is nothing if not thorough.

(Of course, what he refuses to admit is that the exhaustive detail he uses to describe her is more for _himself_ than the mission objective; so he can rebuild the unique image of her when the job is done, and all he has left is his notes.)

She's the most fascinating subject he has ever been assigned to monitor, even though she does almost nothing of consequence. He finds her to be vibrant in a place where most people lost their fire years ago. She's brave, talented, utterly comfortable in her own skin. As someone who has spent his entire adult life atoning for the sins of his family and proving his worth to men he can hardly stand to look in the eye, he envies that more than anything. Maybe she could teach him how to feel like that, he thinks indulgently, if they ever had the chance. If the circumstances that brought them to the same space were different. He knows they will never have that chance, but he satisfies himself with the easy daydream as if it were possible.

When she crosses the room to her telephone, Illya is prepared with his notebook and pen, German-to-Russian dictionary to his left. She answers, and he begins to rapidly translate the words to his native tongue as he transcribes the conversation.

"Hello?"

_"Gaby, it's Analiese."_

"Of course," Miss Teller says easily as she settles down on her sofa with a drink. "How are you, dear?"

_"I'm alright, I suppose. Raoul is driving me absolutely crazy, so I locked myself in the bedroom to call you."_

Miss Teller laughs lightly. "What's he done this time?"

_"It's the fall, so all he can talk about now is football. You know how he is. This player and that team, I can't even remember the names."_

"You knew how much he loved football before you married him," she points out, and studies her nails.

_"Yes, but I hoped being married would expand his horizons at least a little. We honeymooned in Barcelona all those years ago, you know. How does someone spend two weeks in Barcelona and not come back more cultured? We ate things we'd never even heard of before."_

"Maybe that's part of the problem. The Spanish love football more than he does."

 Illya laughs under his breath and nearly misses the other woman's next words. _"Well, when I ask him to talk about anything else, you know what he says? Guess what he says, Gaby."_

"I'm sure I have no idea."

Analiese scoffs. _"He goes off on a rant, saying I never listen to anything he says, even though he always listens to my 'nonsense' about the latest novel I read. As if you can even compare talking about books to talking about football! At least reading is intellectually stimulating."_

"Mm. I'm sorry, dear," she mumbles.

_"And his mother! She calls at all hours of the day, just to criticize what I'm doing and how I look. How she can possibly know that I'm 'dressed like an Italian widow' through the telephone is beyond me."_

"That's really quite awful," Miss Teller offers halfheartedly. She spends the next fifteen minutes flipping through her catalogue as her friend lists every grievance she has with her husband, throwing the occasional 'hm' or 'you don't say' into the conversation. Illya has trouble focusing on the dull complaints, and his mind wanders as he watches Miss Teller play with the ends of her ponytail.

Eventually Analiese runs out of anecdotes (or perhaps breath) and changes the subject. _"What about you, love? How's work?"_ her tone goes up a note, an edge of condescension in her voice.

" _Work_ is fine," Miss Teller answers. "Though yesterday was frightening. Heinrich came in bruised and bloodied."

Illya's ears perk up; he flips the page and continues writing hurriedly.

_"Poor Heinrich! What happened?"_

"A Stasi officer stopped him on the way to the garage. I guess his copy of 'The Murder of Roger Ackroyd' is considered proof of Western sympathies. So they roughed him up, and took the book," she says bitterly.

_"The poor thing. But he should have known not to keep a book like that. It could only lead to trouble."_

"It was a first edition. His grandmother gave him that book before she died. Of course he would keep it," Gaby snaps, anger rising in her voice.

_"I know, Gaby. I do. But keeping those things just isn't worth the risk."_

"A person is allowed to keep their childhood memories, no matter what some officer drunk on his own power has to say about it!" Gaby is nearly yelling now, and Illya hopes for her sake that she can control herself before she says such dangerous things at a volume an official could hear.

_"Really Gaby, I don't know why you can't be happy with what you have. It's better than most."_

"It's not better than _anything_. Why would anyone be happy to live everyday under censorship and threats of violence? You used to be brave, Analiese. What happened to you?"

The other woman's voice frosts over as she says, _"You shouldn't talk like this. You know better."_

"Talk like what? A Russian soldier came to the garage yesterday and I considered cutting his brakes."

Illya's pen stutters to a stop.

"Talk like _that_ , you mean?"

_"Gaby!"_

"And maybe if I did it, he'd crash the car right into the Wall and break through to the other side. And then we'd be free, and at least he'd die doing something worthwhile!"

_"If you're going to be this way, I'm hanging up."_

Gaby beats her to the punch, slamming the phone into the receiver. Her little fists are shaking with rage as she grips her glass and takes a sip. In the next moment, she stands and whips the glass at the wall, and there's an explosion of shards and vodka that rains down on her rug.

Gaby looks instantly exhausted and collapses back into her seat on the sofa, and when Illya sees her face fall into her hands and her little shoulders heave as she sobs, he feels the ridiculously strong urge to blow his cover, run across the street and knock on her door and tell her…something. He doesn't know what he could possibly say to her. Words of sympathy and caring aren't exactly his strong suit. But as he watches her helplessly, he realizes he _truly_ and _dangerously_ cares for this little East German car mechanic, and they've never even been in the same room.

Then Gaby jerks her head up in response to something and Illya curses whatever agent decided to plant bugs only near the phone, because he can't hear what it is. She wipes her eyes roughly on her sleeve, then goes and opens the door.

There's a little old woman there, talking to Gaby in what looks like a panic, waving her arms wildly as she speaks. She must have heard the glass crash from another apartment, and came to check on the young woman. Gaby pats her neighbor's arm reassuringly and points at the mess, making up some explanation for the noise. She hugs the woman goodbye before closing the door and slumping against it.

Suddenly her red eyes are alert, staring out her window directly at Illya. He ducks under the window, his heart thumping erratically in his chest. She couldn't possibly have noticed him, through the total darkness and silence that shrouds him. Slowly he peeks back over the windowsill and sees Gaby looking out of hers, scanning the buildings across from her. Then, as if she senses something that spooks her, she pulls the curtains shut, and Illya's evening of observation is cut short.

He looks down at his notes. The things written here would be considered treasonous even to the most merciful of Stasi officers, not to mention Russian authorities. People have ended up jailed — or worse — for lesser crimes, even if the threats were empty and fueled by anger and alcohol. The little chop shop girl is going to endanger herself if she can't control her temper.

Illya runs his thumb along the edge of the page — then tears it out of the book, shreds it in his hands, stuffs the pieces in his jacket pocket, and tries not to think about it again.

 

**DAY 7 - 23:30**

It's nearly midnight and Gaby still isn't home, so Illya busies himself checking and rechecking his equipment. After she left this morning, Illya had gone across the street and snuck into her apartment to bug the rest of her rooms. He didn't want to risk missing another conversation because some other agent failed to do his job thoroughly.

It had been strange to see her apartment in person and in daylight, rather than through binoculars several hundred shadowy feet away. It felt more like a home up close; he could see her sitting on the sofa, falling asleep while reading. He could see her preparing a meal in the kitchen, smells wafting through the rooms, Gaby dancing as she moved between the pots and pans. He had glanced at her large and pillow-covered bed, surely the most luxurious item she owned, and could imagine a few other scenarios that made him immediately ashamed. He had squashed the thoughts and returned to his work as coolly as possible, placing the devices everywhere he discreetly could: on appliances, under tables and counters and furniture, behind bookshelves, in a crack in the doorframe. He stopped himself short of her bath and bedroom. Ironic as it was for someone spying on her, he felt that would be too great an invasion of privacy. So he left again after ten minutes, ensuring the door locked behind him.

His heart had nearly stopped when he left the building and quite literally ran into her on the sidewalk.

She must have forgotten something and returned home almost as soon as she left, and he thanked the heavens he had been so fast with his work. When they bumped into each other, her shoulder brushing his arm, she looked up at him with such a strange expression he had to consciously avoid staring. He excused himself politely, the German words falling from his lips in a mutter, and she quickly switched to a light smile, a refreshing sight after she had been so distraught yesterday.

He hadn't realized how small she would be in person. He towered over her, by a foot at least, and she seemed absolutely miniature in comparison. Gaby had nodded at him and then marched right on to her building, but once Illya rounded the corner he stopped and lingered against the wall, needing a moment to breathe, out of sight.

What had she just seen when she looked at him with shocked, wide eyes?

More importantly, why had she smiled at him?

His appearance could pass for German, certainly. But something in her face had told him she didn't mistake him for a local. She must have identified him as Russian, he's sure. And yet she smiled. The thought had lingered for the rest of the day and he had let it settle comfortably in the corner of his whirring mind as he set up his binoculars and sound receiver for the night.

Illya frowns when she finally enters the apartment tonight and he sees she is dressed all in a blue so dark it's nearly black. Gaby is so clearly made for color, for the bubbly blues and sweet pinks and dazzling whites he has seen in the windows of French boutiques, and it seems impossibly cruel that she is stuck in her little East Berlin apartment when the outside world would welcome her so easily.

He realizes as she kicks off her shoes and lines them up, that he no longer looks, but _stares_ at her.

Then Gaby wastes no time: as soon as she's settled, she crosses the room and whips the curtains shut.

Illya glares at the covered window, but at least he'll have a chance to hear what's going on this evening.

After a few minutes he can hear the low crackle of a record starting. It's a dramatic, classical piece. Probably a German composer, some dusty old thing that she would have inherited from a relative. She doesn't strike Illya as the type to like very old music full of traditional, orchestral sounds, even if she was a ballerina. Gaby is a very modern woman, after all.

The music reaches a crescendo and then cuts out abruptly, unnaturally. The record is probably broken, he thinks — but quietly a different song starts, the kind that would be playing in shiny new discotheques, and a singer chimes in with an obviously American accent.

Illya is honestly stunned. Someone — perhaps Gaby herself — figured out a way to record the American song and disguise the beginning as something innocuous. It's a very crafty trick, if a Stasi officer ever came knocking, but a complex one. It must have taken a great deal of determination to make this song her own. He wonders what is so special about it, and if she has others like it.

Illya sees a vague shadow playing on the curtain and assumes Gaby must be dancing to the music. He can just barely hear her humming along.

" _Sunny, yesterday my life was filled with rain. Sunny, you smiled at me and really eased the pain,_ " the singer cries out. It's sappy American nonsense but even Illya has to admit that it's a pretty song, and a fitting one.

It has been half an hour since Gaby arrived home and put the record on, but Illya has forgotten to take a single note. He stares at the blank page, trying to find the words to explain what he sees and hears. _Miss Teller listens to music in her main room_ , he finally writes, and that's all his superiors will need to hear on the matter. Then absentmindedly, he scribbles the some of the English lyrics in the margins of his book.

The record fades and crackles out, and Gaby starts it again immediately. She sings along this time, not very skillfully, but nonetheless it's pleasant to listen to.

" _The dark days are gone, and the bright days are here. My Sunny one shines so sincere. Sunny one so true, I love you,_ " she sings throatily, sounding like an aspiring little cabaret singer. Illya shifts in his seat and adjusts his collar, suddenly feeling a little too warm in a sweater and suede jacket. He pulls off the jacket and casts it away, onto the cot a few feet to his right.

The song repeats several more times, after a crackle and a few seconds of the protective classical music. Gaby continues to sing, and Illya continues to listen.

He's starting to imagine sitting in the room with her, watching as she no doubt dances and sways. He remembers the sensation of her arm accidentally brushing his on the street below, and wonders what it would feel like to touch her on purpose.

It's at this point in the evening that Illya decides he is not in control of his own mind today, and shuts off his equipment, resolving to go to bed early. If he's lucky, he won't dream of Gaby Teller. Especially not of that smile, or that voice.

 

**DAY 12 - 19:45**

By his second week of intrusion into Gaby's life, Illya is forced to deal with the fact that he thinks she is captivatingly beautiful. Even during the hours spent on other work, distantly removed from Gaby Teller and her charms, he finds himself thinking about her. He really would like to meet her properly, to hear her voice without the static hiss of his listening device. That is, if she could ever see him as something other than one of the architects keeping her penned in. He isn't one of them, really. His responsibilities are far removed from the foolish occupation of half her city, her country. Worthwhile, he'd call them. Somehow he doubts she'd buy into that way of thinking.

Then just before eight o'clock:

_Miss Teller arrives home, with a male guest._

Illya recognizes him from the garage: a tall but skeletally skinny man, with brown hair so pale it's nearly grey. Not what he imagines would be Miss Teller's type at all.

"Thanks again for having me over," he says almost nervously. He remains standing by the door while she crosses to the kitchen and pulls a bottle and two tumblers out of the top cupboard.

"Of course. You're my best friend, Erik. I'm happy to help you." Illya sneers. _Erik_ is a horrible name, he determines; all jagged, edged syllables that don't fit with hers at all.

"Drink?" she asks. Erik nods appreciatively, and Illya decides that if this man tries anything, if he doesn't keep unwanted hands to himself, then there won’t be anything to stop Illya from bursting into the apartment and snapping _Erik's_ scrawny neck.

"Everyone at the garage keeps asking about women. I was running out of excuses." Miss Teller hands him a glass and he takes a sip. "Believable ones, anyway."

She leans against the counter and crosses her arms. "Do you think they know?"

"I doubt it even crosses their mind. It's not like we're allowed to talk about it, anyway. I bet some of them don't even know people like me exist."

Miss Teller shakes her head. "I'm sorry, Erik," she whispers. "It's not fair."

Her guest shrugs. "Nothing is, not in this place."

"Well, if it'll help you, you can stay the night. I'll make up the couch for you." She winks, and Illya bristles, but continues transcribing the conversation.

Erik laughs. "No, that's alright. David waits up when I'm out late. He worries."

Illya blinks, eyes widening in understanding.

"How is David? I haven't seen him in so long."

 _Erik_ , he amends, is a decent name — so long as it's paired with _David_ , and nothing else.

"He's fine. You should come over for dinner, next Tuesday. He'd be glad to see you."

"I'd be delighted."

They sit on the sofa while they continue their conversation, and Illya thinks this is the most at-ease he has seen Gaby when talking to another person. He's glad then, to see she has a friend like Erik.

"So what about you? Any men in the picture?" Erik whispers conspiratorially.

"No," she says, swirling her glass lazily. "I can't think of anyone." Illya pretends he isn't relieved to write that down.

"What about that Josef, from the restaurant? He's good looking, and he seems fond of you."

"Oh, I don't know. He read some books on nihilism and now all he wants to talk about is the 'nothingness of it all'."

"But that face — those _cheekbones._ You could put an eye out on those and be happy that you were blind," Erik teases, and Gaby giggles, and it sounds as sweet and bubbly as champagne.

"How have you been otherwise, Gaby?" Erik asks and reaches over to squeeze her hand.

"I'm fine. But—" she starts, then the words seem to catch in her throat.

"What is it?" Erik sounds concerned.

"I just—I feel so strange recently. The hair rising on the back of my neck kind of thing."

"What, like someone is following you?"

Illya holds his breath.

"No, not that. It's more like...something is going on. Something big, and it's happening all around me but keeps going on without me." Gaby sighs. "I'm so bored, Erik."

"Gaby," Erik says after a moment of silence, sounding very nervous again. "I have something I've been meaning to tell you."

"Good news, I hope?" She reaches for their glasses and refills them.

"Yes, I think so," he answers slowly. "You—you remember that David was a journalist for the _Morgenpost_ before the Wall went up?"

"Of course, he was brilliant. He still writes, doesn't he?"

"Yes, and—well, that's the point, actually, he—" Erik stumbles. "I don't know how to tell you this."

Gaby looks at him seriously. "He's safe, isn't he? Did something happen?"

"Well, his—his old editor is an influential man on the other side. And it seems like he wants David back, writing for them."

Gaby's eyes widen in shock. "What—you mean—"

Erik nods. "He had a very powerful string to pull, I guess, and he's getting David a visa."

"Oh Erik, that's wonderful!" She cries out, and throws her arms around his neck in an embrace. "But what about you?"

"That's the thing, Gaby. He—he's taking me with him."

Illya searches Gaby's face: she looks stunned, and her eyes are glistening, but she still smiles.

"Oh! I'm so happy for you," she says breathlessly.

"Gaby, we begged him for a third for you, but two was nearly impossible. I tried everything—"

Gaby waves her hand dismissively. "No, no. Don't worry about me. Really, I'm so happy for you two." She reaches out to hug him again, and he holds her tightly.

The words are a little muffled, but Illya can still hear Erik as he mumbles thickly, "I'm going to miss you so much, Gaby." 

"I'll miss you too," Gaby sniffs.

For the second time, Illya watches helplessly as Gaby cries in her cramped little apartment. He thinks impulsively that _he_ could offer her a visa, through the Russian authorities. It might not be her ideal situation, but it could get her out. Then he'd volunteer to escort her as they looked for her missing father. On the way, he'd show her all of the fashions and museums and cities around the world that he has imagined she would love. It isn't his personal feelings getting in the way, Illya assures himself, but it could be the way to finally find the man they've been looking for. He makes a note to mention the potential plan to his superiors in the morning.

Erik pulls away and wipes his eyes. He smiles sadly at her, but quickly it changes to a grin. "What about Kristoph? He's handsome, in his own way," the man teases.

"Erik!" Gaby laughs, and smacks him lightly on the arm. "I don't need you to play matchmaker with me. I'm my own woman."

Illya smiles, and agrees.

The subject quickly changes to happier ones and after a while Gaby seems to feel better, and the two of them talk and laugh the way old friends ought to.

By the time Gaby bids Erik farewell and she goes to bed, Illya's opinion of him has changed from negative to indifferent to cautiously favorable.

And, before he forgets, he makes a note to look into any Josefs who work at local restaurants — just in case. He mentally thanks Erik for the warning.

 

**DAY 13 - 05:45**

By the end of the second week there is no surveillance to do, because Miss Teller is gone.

Four hours after he watched her fade away into the depths of West Berlin, four hours of standing deathly still while rage simmered beneath his surface, the authorities manage to clear a path for Agent Kuryakin to escape the minefield between the walls. He immediately returns to his decrepit hideout to gather his equipment and leave this godforsaken city, but before packing his notebook, he decides to complete his observation notes.

 _~~Miss Teller~~ _ _Target meets the American and flees in car. After pursuit, target has disappeared over the Wall with the obnoxious American, whom I will kill if I see him again._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Rome, after Illya nearly drowns, Gaby first learns how cold his hands are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your delightful comments so far c: And thank you for your patience! I've been traveling for the past six weeks so it's been difficult to find time to write, but I'm home now and I'll be jumping back into the stories I have in progress!
> 
> So, DesertDragon inspired me to think about ways I could expand the story a bit more, and voila, it's now three chapters! Originally I thought of this chapter as a completely separate oneshot, but I like it a lot better in the context of this story. This part also switches from Illya to Gaby's perspective, because though I adoooore Illya's internal monologue about their nights together in Rome, I haven't seen as much written from Gaby's side about it and I really wanted to explore that a bit. I hope you enjoy!

 

"He doesn't sound like he needs _your_ help."

Gaby says this with arms crossed, one thin eyebrow raised. The tips of Illya's ears are burning as he turns off his receiver and tosses it back into his case. He knows the American works fast, but it's hard to believe anyone could work _that_ fast, especially with a viper of a woman like Victoria.

Illya fully intends to go straight to bed and not risk the possibility of anything like last night's wrestling match happening again, which should be easy since Gaby has already returned to bed and seems to lack that same mischievous look in her eyes tonight.

He pulls his still-damp jacket off and tosses it over a nearby chair, but the motion causes a hitch in his ribs. Suddenly adrenaline is no longer a cushion to his system: the events of the evening have caught up to him and he thinks he's going to collapse.

Before he manages to do something truly embarrassing, he catches himself against the wall and slides down it until he's sitting on the carpet. His head falls back as he closes his eyes and tries to keep the room from spinning.

"Illya!"

Through his nauseous haze, he still can't believe that he gets to hear his name in her voice, this girl who ran from him only a matter of days ago, as the princess runs from the monster in all the fairy tales.

Gaby is on her knees in front of him and places a hand on his chest when he doesn't answer. He flinches, both from the pain of bruises and at the spark that any touch from her now sends coursing through him. She repeats his name and Illya meets her wide brown eyes. She looks genuinely concerned for him, and stern, like a scolding matron. Instantly he feels like he's ten years old again, being dragged by the ear to the headmaster's office after he broke Ivan Vompe's nose in the schoolyard. He finds that the expression is strangely charming on her and tries to refrain from studying it.

"Are you hurt?" she asks.

"A little bruised," he replies after a moment.

She looks at him suspiciously, waiting for an explanation.

"We had to jump. Out of second story window." Gaby continues to stare at him, aghast.

"I am okay," he says quietly.

"Here — I’ll help you up."

He rises to his feet mostly under his own power, but appreciates Gaby's gesture of supporting him under the shoulder. He pats her arm once he's standing, very lightly, but regrets it when she takes in a hissing breath.

"Your hands are _freezing_. Did you fall in a frozen lake, as well?"

"Not exactly." He pauses to swallow. "I was on boat when it exploded, though."

Gaby scoffs in disbelief. "Idiot. You could have drowned. Sit down, maybe a hot bath can defrost you."

"No, really, I'm—"

She silences him with a narrowed look and points firmly at the bed. "Sit," she commands, and though she's forced to look up at him, he frequently finds himself forgetting their size difference in the face of her towering personality.

He sits on the edge of his bed as she directs, and then she disappears into the bathroom. He can hear the squeak of the faucets and water running, and takes deep breaths as he tries to wrap his mind around the fact that this is Gabriella Teller in the next room, drawing him a bath and overall looking at him like he means something.

"Illya," she calls, and he looks up at her with a start. "You should go now, while it's warm."

_What_ exactly he means to her, he isn't sure. But more than anything, he'd like the opportunity to find out.

"Thank you," he offers quietly. As she brushes past him in the narrow doorway, he breathes her in like oxygen.

Illya closes the bathroom door and begins to strip off the soaking layers, letting them form a puddle on the tile floor. He lowers himself into the water, blesses the newfound warmth, and begins trying to pick apart the thoughts filling his head about the little chop shop girl, the object of his distant admiration now close enough to touch.

He forgot to bring in his own supply bag in with him, so he picks up the soaps around the tub, looking for anything he can use. The hotel-provided bottles are all too perfumed for his taste, floral or sugary sweet. He finds one in a nondescript white bottle and recognizes its mild, nutty smell immediately: it must be the shampoo Gaby uses, and his heartbeat picks up erratically as he remembers the way he learned that scent last night, when she leaned over him and her hair brushed his cheek.

He _did_ take her up on the offer of a drink, after he'd put her to bed. He sat in the main room in the dark, not wanting to wake her as he drained a glass of vodka, quickly followed by a second.

It was ridiculous really, but he felt the need to make a point of facing away from the bedroom, feeling too guilty about his previous nighttime surveillance to allow himself to look on as she slept. He fought to calm the nerves that the fiery mechanic girl had singed with her little performance, still smoldering as he stared hard at his chessboard without bothering to move the pieces. All the time wishing she would wake up and walk over to him, finish what they'd started.

Illya sits up straighter in the bath and shakes his head, determined to think of something else, _anything_ less incendiary. He focuses instead on this evening: after leaving the Vinciguerra party, he had taken her out to dinner, and he was right that she would fit into the exotic world beyond the Wall so fluidly. She ordered every strange thing on the menu, from snails to sweetbreads, eventually drawing the chef out of the kitchen to meet the enthralling young German woman who could so appreciate the Italian delicacies. Gaby was positively glowing, every new food a reminder of how freedom tasted. Illya savored his role as well, free to watch her with the eyes of an infatuated fiancé.

The couple didn't speak much during the meal, still tentative around each other. They were lucky then that the view was so beautiful, so their frequent silence and staring off into the horizon seemed more natural to the amateurish goons the Vinciguerras had sent to monitor them. They finished their dinner before the sun had set, the sky fading to a golden hue as they began the trek back to the hotel. For added effect, Illya had slipped a hand low around Gaby's waist as he guided her back toward the Steps. She seemed perfectly comfortable with the gesture, and he did not think he was imagining the feeling of her leaning her weight into him.

Then Gaby had made some offhand comment that, if that was the kind of meal Alexander Vinciguerra had in mind, maybe she should take him up on his private lunch offer after all. He wasn't sure if it had been an intentional attempt to goad him — but of _course_ it was, since Gaby was the one to say it. So when they reached their hotel, Illya walked right into the bedroom and slammed the doors, busying himself with developing photographs and absolutely _not_ sulking, like he heard Gaby accuse under her breath when he passed through the main room to retrieve his second roll of film.

Sinking farther into the bath, Illya lets out a defeated exhale, the streams of air causing water to ripple around his face. He realizes for the nth time in the past several days that he is hopelessly in over his head.

He thinks of the photo he took of her that day at the racetrack; his habit of discreetly recording her movements is apparently a difficult one to break. Unlike the others, he took his time to develop this one, a candid shot of a focused Gaby watching the race, adjusting her sunglasses absentmindedly, wind-tousled hair forming a frame around her face. So beautiful and honest. He intends to keep it, when all is said and done. A souvenir, the perfect addition to his surveillance notes, to complete the image of her when she has become a memory.

Indulgently, he thinks maybe she'll keep his ring at the end of this. One last bug, guiltily placed, an invisible token of his infatuation. Near or far, he knows she will always be driving him to distraction. Miss Gabriella Teller, the fiery East German mechanic; the little chop shop girl who changed his life with a stolen song and dance, who looked at him once like she could have loved him, in a different kind of world.

Illya holds his breath and submerges his head under the water, focusing on the rushing sound in his ears to temporarily drown out the thoughts that torture him.

(He could have died tonight. Instead he's embarrassingly indebted to the Cowboy. But if he had, he's at least glad he had the chance to meet her. Miss Gaby Teller-Schmidt. His little chop shop girl.)

 

* * *

 

As soon as Illya closes the bathroom door behind him, Gaby fetches a glass of water and two aspirin, leaving them on his bedside table, and then steps out onto the balcony to give him more privacy. Her own reaction when Illya collapsed surprised her, the sudden panic that he was in trouble, the natural instinct to help him.

She had a similar reaction when her faux fiancé punched their mugger in the throat the previous evening, as she desperately tried to hold him back. She looked down the barrel of the gun pointed at them, then at Illya's seething expression, and thought frantically that this Russian man was capable of landing them in a world of high-stakes danger.

After two mind-numbing years behind that Wall, she found herself liking the idea. She cannot think of another week in her life that had been half as exciting as this one. Gaby's starved for adventure, and one thing you couldn't call time with Illya Kuryakin is boring.

She hears the bathroom door open, quickly followed by the bedroom door closing, and returns inside to take a seat in front of his chessboard and study the pieces.

When she'd tackled him last night, she had wanted to get a rise out of him, teach the stoic wall of Russian brick and mortar not to take himself so seriously. His reaction had satisfied her perfectly — until she had underestimated her own drunkenness and gotten clumsy, nearly kissing him and complicating their whole situation even further. She hadn't been prepared for the way that suddenly open, vulnerable look in his eyes had gripped her heart, the way his hands traveled up her waist and made her breath catch. She's somewhat glad now that she fell asleep, before she embarrassed herself completely.

After fifteen minutes she hears the door click behind her and lifts her head from her hand, finding Illya dressed in a white shirt and gray cotton pants, leaning on the doorframe and looking at her almost sheepishly.

"Thank you for thinking of me," he says suddenly.

She blinks at him. "What?"

"The aspirin. Thank you, I needed it," he admits.

Something in his tone makes her feel very defensive. Why _wouldn't_ she think of him, when he was hurt?

"It was no trouble," she insists a little too sharply.

After an awkward beat of silence, he moves out of the doorway.

"You can come back in, when you're ready."

Gaby gets up and stretches. "I thought I should give you some privacy. I hope you don't mind, I was seeing if I remember the rules." She gestures at the chessboard.

His eyes light up. "You know how to play?"

"No, it's been years. I've forgotten what all the pieces do."

"I could teach you. If you'd like. Tomorrow." He says this quickly, and there's that look again. Wide, open, eager. Determined to catch her off-guard.

Gaby swallows and nods as she walks past him toward her bed. "That would be nice."

Illya Kuryakin is the strangest man she has ever known. The way he combs his still-wet hair, folds his clothes, is so particular; as if every movement is the product of a long study in its execution. A giant, so careful not to affect his surroundings, intimidated by his own size and strength. And yet she has seen this same figure tear the trunk from her car and proceed to keep up with it on foot. It baffles her, how he can be so simultaneously deadly and docile.

He notices her staring. She glances down and adjusts her bedsheets. "Are you feeling better?" she asks.

Illya nods. "Fine, thank you." He crosses his arms over his chest as if he's uncomfortable being in short sleeves in front of her, and she finds herself wanting to take him apart brick by brick, explore what lives inside.  

"How old are you?" Gaby asks abruptly, once she's settled in bed and Illya is setting his clothes out for the following morning. He just shoots her a confused look.

"Why?"

"We're still engaged, aren't we? Shouldn't we know some of the little things about each other?"

Illya nods slowly, evaluating the need to share details about himself, warily calculating how to avoid sharing too much.

"Thirty-two," he finally says.

"Really?" Gaby surveys him. "You don't look more than thirty."

 Illya shrugs. "Youthful features," he replies, and Gaby laughs lightly.

"I'm twenty-six," she says when he doesn't ask the same question of her.

He smiles, just barely. "You seem older."

"I had to grow up fast," she answers. Illya looks at her in earnest, silently communicating that he knows the feeling.

Gaby fires off another question as Illya selects a turtleneck from his suitcase and lays it out on a chair. "Favorite color?" Black, she guesses.

He stares at her for too long. "Green, I think." A pause as he chooses a matching jacket. "What about you?"

"Orange. But you're not _sure_ about green?"

Illya smirks. "I say 'I think' because it changes every day. Depends on what beautiful things I have seen." What a poetic sentiment, she thinks, from the KGB's finest. Rather than unravel him, this little game just serves to make him more complicated.

Gaby taps her lips with her index finger. "Hm. I think the most beautiful things are always orange. Flowers, sunsets. Champagne with orange juice."

Illya wrinkles his nose, remembering their morning in the hotel's patio restaurant. "It was called a mimosa, and it was far too sweet."

"Well, I'll continue drinking yours for you." Her faux fiancé laughs.

"You have an orange Chanel dress," he reminds her. "You could wear it tomorrow."

"Would you set it out for me?"

Illya crosses the room to the closet and removes the dress from the hanger, holding it as if it's a priceless Fabergé jewel. He lays it across an armchair as delicately. Gaby is struck by the natural domesticity of it all, and finds herself needing to distract from the surge of feelings in her chest. She can't afford to forget that this is a façade, and it is fleeting.

"Is _Illya Kuryakin_ your real name?" She makes his name sound so strange, like some closely guarded secret code, and he shifts the muscles in his shoulders awkwardly.

"Yes, it is." He phrases the response like a question.

"'Napoleon Solo' sounds like he got it from a comic book," she explains, "so I was wondering."

Illya laughs loudly this time, and she notices the white flash of his teeth when he smiles. "I would not put it past him."

He clicks the light off and settles into bed, just a few feet from her own, and seems to fall into the rhythm of their little game when he asks his own question. "Did you have any pets, when you were a child?"

Gaby smiles at the ceiling as she remembers the clumsy puppy she received for her seventh birthday. "Yes, a German Shepard. I named him Yeager." She turns her head to look at him. "Did you?"

"No. My mother was allergic." Illya rolls on his side to face her fully, one arm under his head, and rubs his increasingly tired eyes.

"You should rest," Gaby tells him. "You must be exhausted, from all the falling out of buildings and nearly drowning."

"In a minute," he whispers.

In the dim moonlight sneaking through the curtains, she squints at his left forearm. "What is that?"

"What is what?" he asks sleepily.

"Do you have a tattoo?"

His eyes go wide and he immediately tucks the arm away. "I—what are you talking about?"

"You don't hide the ink on your wrist very well, Illya." He has the decency to look embarrassed, but still holds her gaze.

"What does it say?" she prods.

Illya grumbles. " _Molotok."_

"And what does _that_ mean?"

"Learn Russian, and you'll know."

Gaby huffs. "Fine, I'll find out for myself. Don't think I won't remember."

"What about _you_? The rebellious little chop shop girl, surely she must have one of her own," he shoots back. Gaby grins to herself. He looks so different in the darkness. More confident, daring even. A creature of the night, she decides.

"I might."

"What is it?"

"Guess." 

Illya stares her down intensely. "It's something sentimental. A name, or a date."

"And where do you think it is?"

"On your back, I am sure."

"Hm. Interesting," she hums.

"Am I right?"

"A proper fiancé would wait to find out for himself." It's bold of her to say, especially at this hour, but she lets the words hang between them anyway, full of unspoken promise.

She worries when Illya is silent that she has frightened him back behind his wall, but he soon says very lowly, "would a proper fiancé _get_ to find out?"

Gaby begins to hear her heart thrumming in her ears. "If he behaved himself very well, yes."

She sees his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. "Gaby—"

There is a renewed clatter in the room above them, more thudding furniture and embarrassingly loud groans, causing both Gaby and Illya to cringe. By the time it’s quiet again the moment is lost, extinguished like a flame in the wind, and Gaby makes a mental note to throw something very heavy at Napoleon's head first thing in the morning.

Desperate to cut through the weighted silence, she changes the subject. "My…my uncle invited me to lunch tomorrow. Alone."

"Oh," Illya mumbles. "You—you should go. We'll follow."

"You boys should be more careful. Not like tonight's stunts."

Illya hums sleepily in agreement, while Gaby stares at the ceiling and thinks of her assignment. She absolutely cannot tell him the truth. But she can't pretend the thought of throwing both of these men to the wolves doesn't turn her stomach.

"Illya," she calls after a long silence, hating the neediness in her own voice. There's no answer other than steady breathing. She smiles: it seems the giant has succumbed to sleep before her tonight.

_He'll be all right_. She reassures herself with the mantra. Napoleon is more resilient than anyone she has ever met, and Illya — he's special, without a doubt. (Waverly had been highly amused by her use of the phrase _very special agent_ to describe the man, but Gaby was resolute in her opinion). She'll apologize when it's all over, in every way she knows how. That captivating look he sends her way in their honest moments, the one that cuts straight down to her heart, convinces Gaby that he'll manage to forgive her.

She fiddles with the black pearl on her tiny finger. He made a promise to teach her chess. She hopes beyond hope that he'll get to keep it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love that Armie Hammer has a tattoo in Russian, hehe. I took some liberties to make it more Illya-appropriate (I can't imagine the Red Peril having an English word in Cyrillic characters tattooed on his wrist rather than a Russian word after all~).
> 
> The epilogue will be up very soon! Thank you so much for reading <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He tells her, eventually, about those moments. Selfishly he waits until their relationship has changed in that inevitable way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *says last chapter should be up in a few days, doesn't post it until months later*  
> Please forgive me, I'm the worst. I'm still in university and once the semester started, it would not stop Dx But here it is, the final piece! Thank you to everyone for your lovely and touching comments, and I hope the ending satisfies! 
> 
> Special thank you to my fiancé for editing this chapter <3 he finally jumped on the Gallya ship!

"So why _do_ you have this?" Gaby plants a full-lipped kiss over the ink on the inside of Illya's wrist and for a moment he forgets to breathe, forgets his own name, let alone the reason for his tattoo.

"W-what?"

Gaby actually giggles, which is rare. A testament to the half a bottle's worth of champagne on her breath.

"Your tattoo, Illya. What does it say? _Molotok?_ "

He sighs as she refocuses her attention on the sharp line of his jaw, and confesses at last. "It means hammer."

"Why 'hammer'?" she mumbles into his neck.

"Is a nickname."

"Because you're so heavy? Blunt? Hard-headed?"

He exhales a laugh and pulls her closer by the hips. "Why not?"

The truth of the nickname is that it's more of a label, not for endearment but to describe his use in a single, uncaring word. But Gaby, as always, manages to make it affectionate.

Breath hitches and skin blushes as kisses grow deeper. So far clothes remain in place, though Gaby in pajamas is hardly a chaste sight for Illya. So far, clothes have _always_ remained in place. He's always the one to put the brakes on, even when he wants nothing more than to surge ahead, Gaby encouraging him almost cruelly. But he can’t take that final step, past the point of no return. Something yanks him back, like a parachute when he's in freefall.

He often is, around her.

But tonight feels like progress to Gaby, like they're journeying a little farther than normal, and she doesn't play fair. Slipping warm hands under his shirt, she whispers sinfully, "You know, we have _all_ night. Just the two of us…" One hand leaves his bare torso to travel dangerously close to his belt buckle.

Illya's head is spinning. He doesn't say anything, just breathing hard against the shell of her ear, and Gaby takes the invitation to slide the leather out of the first few loops.

He finds his voice then. "Wait — Gaby, wait."

She pulls her hand away and sits back on his thighs. "What is it?"

"Not now. I — I can't."

He hates himself for not being able to give in to her, give in to himself. He wishes he had her confidence, her surety. He has wished for that since the moment he first saw her.

Gaby leans back in and kisses him soothingly. "It's alright. Maybe tomorrow." She kisses him once more, on the forehead, then makes her way to the bathroom to prepare for bed.

Illya stays where he is, on the sofa in their hotel room reminiscent of their first night together, and tries to cool himself down. Gaby is always understanding. She never pushes him, though sometimes he wishes she would. Remove the choice from his hands and leave it to her. Take exactly what she wants from him.

"Do you have aspirin?" Gaby calls after a few minutes, prompting him to get up.

Illya walks into the bedroom and answers, "In my case, _liebling_." The word sounds odd but awfully nice, and Gaby's lips quirk into a smile at the sound of it.

"Can I get them myself?"

"Yes. If you'd like." She smiles a little wider. It might seem innocuous to anyone else, but it's significant that he trusts her to look through his private things.

Illya lays out tomorrow's clothes as she searches for the pill bottle. He isn't exactly sure what an anthropology professor is supposed to wear, but he decides it would finally be an appropriate time for a bowtie, Cowboy be damned.

"Illya, what's this?" He turns, and Gaby is holding a far more interesting find.

"It — is photograph," he answers dumbly.

"I can see that. But it's of me. When did you take this?"

"That day at the racetrack, in Rome. I took it accidentally, but it was beautiful. So I kept it."

"Oh." Gaby seems a little flattered, to his relief. He worries sometimes that his infatuation would not seem charming, if she knew the full extent of it.

Gaby replaces the photo and continues to search the case for the medicine.

"It's in the left pocket—" he instructs, but words die out when she holds up a notebook with her name on the cover.

"Why is my name on this?" Illya's breath catches in his throat. Instantly he regrets teaching her the Cyrillic alphabet.

"No, that's—" In one long stride he's at her side and trying to grab the book away. Gaby holds it behind her back and puts a hand on his chest.

"It's confidential," he tries. Wrong answer; he's penalized with an icy look and quirked eyebrow.

"It has _my name_ on it. I have more right to know than anyone."

"It is…notes."

"On me?"

"Yes. On you."

"From Rome?"

Illya squares his shoulders. No turning back now; he may as well confess to it all.

"A bit…before that."

Her eyes widen. "In _Berlin_?"

He nods automatically. "You figured out I was keeping track of you, before?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Keeping track—very closely."

"Illya, what are you trying to tell me?"

He thinks frantically that maybe he doesn't need to be as nervous about sharing this with Gaby as he is; after all, she has been an active agent for months now. She knows what watching a mark entails.

"I watched you. For surveillance. At home, at night." He doesn't mean to speak in broken little fragments, but that's what he manages to say.

Gaby is quiet for too long, so Illya speaks again. "I've wanted to tell you, but I was — nervous. Didn't know what to say."

"What's so difficult to figure out? You were spying on me," Gaby says, tone hardened.

"Gaby—"

"How long? How long were you watching me?"

"It was—two weeks. Before Cowboy came." That's strike two.

"Two _weeks?_ "

"I feel guilty. That's why I'm telling you now," he tries.

"How did you watch me? Did you break into my home to plant your—your damned little devices?"

"Another agent planted bugs," he starts, but can't stand to hide any more of the truth. "I added a few more, one morning after you left for work."

Chancing a look at her face, he sees it take on the same shade and expression as the time Napoleon shoved her into the koi pond at a garden party, creating a diversion while he pilfered the host's office keys. Betrayal, rage. He braces himself for combat.

"You know what it means to tail someone. You knew I was following you. Does it matter now?"

"Of course it does, it matters because of this! Because of us!" Her arm gestures wildly between them and smacks him in the chest.

Illya tenses. "I did not _know_ then. How could I have known one day I would get to talk to you, listen to you, touch you?"

"You certainly took your time to admit it, didn't you? Is that why we haven't done more?  You've already had it all on display, no permission needed. So what's the point?"

"That is not true," Illya speaks through clenched teeth. "Stop this. You're being cruel."

"Cruel? How am I _ever_ supposed to trust you now?"

"You really want to talk about trust? I suppose throwing me to actual dogs makes you trustworthy," he snaps. Yet another downside to having an American partner: all this time spent with Solo has enhanced his capacity for sarcasm. The tone feels wrong in his voice, like wearing an ill-fitting suit.

Gaby goes from hot rage to frosted over. "I thought you forgave me for that a long time ago."

"I did. I have. I _understand_ you did what you had to do."

"Don't you _dare_ turn this around. You were spying on me! You invaded my privacy, like — like my life was just a show for you! You had no right."

"If I receive orders, I carry them out. You should be able to understand that."

"Will that always be the excuse? Orders? You can do whatever you want to me, cast me aside when you're done, if it's in the name of following orders!"

Illya is close to shouting now. "What would you ask of me, Gaby? Insubordination, for the East German car mechanic girl I didn't know?"

Gaby is frighteningly quiet for a moment, her breathing shallow. "You're right. Thank you for telling me Illya, because at least it proves one thing. _This_ ," she waves her hand between the two of them again, "is doomed to fail, isn't it?"

Illya shakes his head violently. "Don't say that."

Gaby looks at him with wide eyes, then whispers, "I think I'd like you to leave."

"Gaby—"

She ignores him and walks into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

Illya ends up at the front desk feeling far too exposed in an undershirt and pajamas, trying to find another room.

At least bickering newlyweds is a realistic cover.

"Is the room not to your liking, Monsieur Sokolov?"

"No, the room is fine. I'm afraid Madame Sokolov is upset with me."

The man behind the desk makes a pitying face. "My apologies, Monsieur. I will see what we have." He disappears into the back room.

"Evening, comrade. Trouble in paradise?" Illya's fingers, tapping on the counter, increase their speed when he hears the condescension in that voice.

They can at least acknowledge each other this time, as professional colleagues; professor of anthropology and classics scholar come to Paris to witness the grand opening of an historic antiquities exhibit. But at this moment, acknowledging the Cowboy is the last thing he needs.

"You were at the bar this whole time?" Illya scoffs, not looking up at him from the front desk.

"Just a few drinks with some exciting new friends. Since you and Gaby retire as early as an old married couple, I have to find entertainment elsewhere."

The manager returns then with his head bowed. "I am so sorry Monsieur, but we have no other availabilities."

"Sokolov, old friend. If you need lodging, I'd be happy to offer you the sofa in my own room." Solo smiles while Illya tries not to growl outwardly.

That's how Illya is rescued by the charitable American colleague. What a happy coincidence, they leave the night manager to think. Illya is less than thrilled about spending the night on Solo's sofa, but at least he doesn't seem to have any other guests this evening. He doubts it's from lack of trying; yet he also has trouble believing that the man would sacrifice an evening with attractive company for the sake of helping him.

Illya settles on the sofa while Solo pours himself another drink. He hopes his partner will have the decency not to pry, but respecting boundaries has never been the man's strong suit.

"What happened?" Napoleon asks, "Gaby kick you out?"

"It is none of your business." Illya says tersely. He fiddles with the gold band around his finger. He has never been one to wear a ring and after a few days he still hasn't gotten used to it.

"Go on. What happened?"

Illya sighs heavily. "She found out I was watching her in Berlin. Doing surveillance."

"Well, of course you were."

"Not so obvious to her."

"I'm sure she'll get over it."

"Even if she does not — how can I blame her?"

He knows how she feared and hated being monitored. How can she look at him now and feel anything other than black boots against her throat, see anything other than the hammer-and-sickle insignias on unwelcome oppressors in her home?

Napoleon seems to read his thoughts. "Gaby's cleverer than you give her credit for. She can tell the difference between her enemies and…well, whatever you are to her at this point."

Illya almost laughs. Whatever he is to her, indeed.

Napoleon bids him goodnight and goes to his room, leaving Illya to study the ceiling in the dark. His mind wanders to her affectionately, even if she wounded him less than an hour ago. That tattoo on her shoulder blade of a little tree, the black lines so crisp against her bronzed skin. It's a honeysuckle, modeled after the tree outside her childhood bedroom that always sent its beautiful perfume into her room in the morning. He was right that it was sentimental and had tried not to gloat. Now he studies it often, when she tucks her little arms under her head and sleeps on her stomach. When he sees it, he always wants to pepper the skin with kisses but fears waking her.

He wonders if she's sleeping now. How she could, he doesn't know. But she always has had a unique talent for sleeping through anything.

* * *

They meet at the taxi the next morning, not having spoken since their tumultuous evening and now thrust into role of the academic and his new wife.

"You look beautiful in that dress," he offers, holding the door open for her.

"You look like a mortician in that suit," she snips and slides into the car. Illya frowns and follows her in.

Gaby leans forward in her seat and directs the driver to take them to the Louvre, then addresses Illya in her native tongue as they drive away from the hotel.

"Your notes are in Russian." His woman wastes no time getting to what's on her mind.

He stares at her blankly. "Of course they are."

"Well, I can't _read_ it. I stared at them all night but I couldn't understand it." She takes the book from her purse and tosses it in his lap. "Tell me what it says."

Illya accepts the demand, in part relieved that she didn't sleep either. He starts each sentence slowly, carefully translating the words in his mind. He reads and she watches him as he does, expression indecipherable.

"You spent a lot of time describing my appearance," she accuses after a few entries.

"I paid close attention to everything about you," he answers quietly. She doesn’t say anything, so he continues reading.

He watches her fingers tap on her knee when he begins the conversation with her friend Analiese. It's long and trivial, but he reads every line of it until the missing page, the moment that Gaby is clearly anticipating.

She looks at him skeptically when he stops there. "You're missing something," she says, and glances at the torn page.

"I know," he says firmly.

His meaning seems to hit her, and she mumbles, "What happened to not risking insubordination?"

"I guess I'm more foolish than you thought." He swallows heavily when she leans closer to his shoulder.

He finishes on the note about Solo and she scoffs. He waits anxiously for her to say something.

"Well?"

"It's all — facts in there."

He stares at her. "What did you expect?"

"What did you think of me, while you were watching? Where were your _impressions_?"

"KGB does not care for editorializing."

"Well, I'm asking now," she says with arms tightly crossed.

"I thought — that I could understand."

"What — me?"

"The anger, frustration. The — the loneliness."

Her eyes were downcast. "I'm sure you could," she says sharply.

"You looked so beautiful, even from a distance. You shone in a dark place. I just wanted to meet you. I was obsessed with the idea. And now I have." He shifts closer to whisper the rest. "For the first time...I feel lucky. I don't want to lose this."

"Illya," she breathes, almost defeated. "I don't want you to have seen me that way."

"What way?"

"Furious, out of control!"

He brushes the hair from her face and tucks it behind her little ear. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I know. But you have seen me that way, too. You—you _help_ me, when I feel that way."

Gaby sighs, but her posture softens. She touches Illya's hand resting on his knee.

"I ran into you once, do you remember?" he asks.

"No, remind me."

"It was on the street. I bumped your shoulder. You looked at me and smiled, even though I was like soldiers you hated."

She looks at him blankly. "I don't remember this."

"You don't?" He can't believe she doesn't remember a moment so brief yet meaningful to him. He had studied that moment in dreams, imagined more self-indulgent and private versions.

"No. Illya…I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I think it's just habit to smile when you apologize for running into someone."

He shakes his head sharply, embarrassed now. "Of course. You're right."

She smiles at him for the first time today, and places a kiss on the corner of his mouth. "I know who you are now, and I do more than smile at you. Isn't that more important?"

Illya feels the tips of his ears redden, to his chagrin and her delight. "I—yes. That is true."

The taxi eases to a stop in front of their destination, and Gaby's breath catches when she sees the stunning landscape of the Louvre. She has never been to Paris and Illya remembers how thrilled she was when they received this assignment.

When they leave the taxi, she wraps her arm around his elbow and says, "Shall we, Mr. Sokolov?" He can't help but feel the true affection seeping through their cover, her anger gone. It's all too easy to pretend to be Gaby's husband.

He places a kiss on her other hand.

"You, Mrs. Sokolov, I would follow anywhere."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm obsessed with the idea that Illya was keeping tabs on Gaby and liking her way before they technically met. It explains so much! The way he looked at her in the car, how he knew her dress and ring sizes, the way Stoic Russian Man felt comfortable enough to spin her around in that little boutique...I'm also obsessed with the idea that Illya has a soft spot for the ballet, because it's just so cute.
> 
> Also I have no idea if it's possible to splice music together on a record and how to do that, but if there's a way I think Gaby would have figured it out! I took some liberties with that. I think the song Sunny by Bobby Hebb suits her really well too, even though it came out later than the movie is set (oops)! She's a real firecracker, that one. I just love these two goofs so much <3 
> 
> Please let me know what you think! :D I'm planning an epilogue chapter soon, where Gaby finds out Illya had been spying on her for weeks before they met and is not so happy about it, so stay tuned!


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